


the boy who dies of lovesickness

by Bondmaiden



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hanahaki, Angst and Tragedy, Eventual Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bondmaiden/pseuds/Bondmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrequited love will torment Kuroko with flowers.</p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i> When he looks up, the reflection of a gaunt spectre haunts him with its hollow blue eyes and a crimson petal stuck on the corner of its lips. </i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>It won’t be long before he can’t hide it anymore. </i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>His body is a flowering graveyard, and chrysanthemum parasites feast on his banquet of innards. </i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	the boy who dies of lovesickness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muffarino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffarino/gifts).



> AkaKuro Week’s 17/4 Prompt of AU | “When you start falling in love with someone, you will cough out flowers. Unless the love is requited, you will die.” | for [erin](http://muffarino.tumblr.com) because erin
> 
>   
> _Music rec (because this song is goooood):_ [Hidetake Takayama - Puke](http://listenonrepeat.com/?v=hlPTOdf_gTE#Hidetake_Takayama_-_Puke)

**► | PLAY**  
It all begins when he starts coughing out flowers. 

Red petals spatter all over the mosaic tiles. Sickeningly sweet stench assaults his nostrils like someone shoved fistfuls of flowers down his throat. He doubles over, knees hitting the floor, retching. Waxy leaves cling to his moist tongue and he gags at the foreign texture.

Kuroko removes the hand covering his mouth, staring at his spit-slick palm.

His vision spins, yet he cannot mistaken those red dots as anything else other than chrysanthemums. Crimson chrysanthemums—the flower of love.

And so it begins: The slow, beautiful process of his bodily destruction.

* * *

**► | PLAY**

The first stage of Kuroko Tetsuya’s death wraps him in its beauty, a gossamer veil drooping over his eyes.

Nothing has changed: The landlady quips her greeting with a wave and a smile when he leaves his room—then her smile freezes and she stares after him, dropping her broom. He knows he reeks of flowers like that time when Momoi doused her Flower by Kenzo perfume over him. That stunt she pulled sent everyone into collective aneurysms when they thought he was dying at 17.

Now, it’s no longer a joke. The cheap softener he soaks his laundry in does little to chase away the stench. 

“We need a redhead to rescue Tetsu,” Aomine points out. With one earbud hanging from his neck, a heroic rock theme blaring out adds oomph to his statement. “But I never saw any of them in Toudai…”

That, Kuroko agrees.

With the modern intervention of dyes, it’s increasingly harder to find the ones with naturally red hair—and that’s the only clue he’s running on. He wrinkles his nose thinking of people roaming the Earth freely with fire for their hair, finding it hard to imagine. Pure, unadultered red screams attention. Attention he isn’t fond of. 

Kise spat his first black dahlia petals a few weeks ago; now, he’s found companionship in his senior Kasamatsu, the chemical engineering major just a few blocks down the road. They meet once every few days for embarrassingly loud kisses shared in crowded hallways, courtesy of Kise’s demands, and sometimes Kise leaves, only to show up the next morning with red bites on his neck and a shirt too tight. 

Aomine isn’t an exemplary person to take pointers from, but he choked on pink petunias a year back and obviously balked when Momoi blubbered out navy blue shortly afterwards. Kuroko recalls seeing her upset beyond consolation when she bit out _you’re leaving me to die because you’re such a big baby when it comes to love_ , and it got him kissing her to shut up. 

That stopped the coughing. 

“Why don’t we just put up signs and distribute flyers? WANTED: Girl with red hair?” Kise suggests, perking up. Nimble hands already scribbling the tagline over his sketchbook, he continues, “And maybe we can put a small picture of Kurokocchi in _this_ corner over here—“

Momoi just groans and shakes her head vehemently. “No, Kii-chan, what if it’s a _boy_? You can’t assume Tetsu-kun just likes girls!”

“Tetsu likes dicks too?” Aomine frowns. His fleeting glance sweeps over Kuroko like a barcode scanner and suddenly Kuroko feels oddly violated. “Should’ve guessed… What’s your type? If you say it’s Mayuzumi, I’ll punch him. That asshole keeps hanging around you, it’s so fucking creepy—he should stick with his 2D wives. God knows what kinks he gets off on…”

 _I don’t have any specific preference_ is what Kuroko wants to retort, and maybe a little bit of _Mayuzumi-kun and I are just friends and he doesn’t have red hair so calm down and don’t punch him because he’ll definitely punch you back_ , but Kuroko holds his tongue and politely addresses his private circle of friends.

“Please, everyone, I’m fine. Don’t make a huge fuss out of it.”

‘Don’t make a huge fuss out of it’ is an understatement. 

Momoi’s the first one to burst into fits of tears—“Tetsu-kun can’t die now! He’s the godfather of our future kids! Do something about it, Dai-chan!”—and it gets Aomine throwing him an exasperated look at how he’s supposed to handle a wailing emotional pink ball. He might or might not have whispered, “Way to go, Tetsu, real smooth talk about your death,” under his breath too. 

Kise’s already gone from the start, lost in his delusion of sketching out a perfect WANTED poster. Meaty outlines, in which Kuroko assumes it’s him, poses smack dab on his sketchpad, inked red flowers dripping from his lips like it’s a poster for the next blockbuster romantic movie premiere, and just everything, everything—

—just _stop._

Kuroko packs his textbooks, evicts his seat, and makes plans to stop by the convenience store on his way home.

He leaves, unnoticed.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

His parents will never hear word of this.

* * *

**► | PLAY**  
Kuroko’s an adult, already 20, paying his rent with part-time shifts at the university library. His mind is quicker than his feet. A trip to 7-11 lurches him forward into the foundation of his plan: complete and total isolation from everyone else to avoid their fussing about his untimely death—with no offence to their disastrous matchmaking skills. 

Little ramen cups dotted the length of his desk, neatly stacked according to colours: bottom right is green for button mushroom, followed by mellow yellow for chicken soup, and after that some freckled black cups representing peppered crabs, and spicy red—

—his stomach quivers all of a sudden, bile rising, throat tightening, and the next thing he knows he’s already on all fours, _convulsing_ , making gagging noises as saliva trickles down his chin. 

Petals rain over his shaking hands; crimson chrysanthemums sing to him all about love. The pungent perfume burns right up his oesophagus to his nasal cavity, accompanied by the icky flavour of crushed flowers flooding his mouth. Kuroko’s eyes water as his fingers reach into his parted lips and pinched out a whole chunk of bitten chrysanthemum, soggy from moisture. 

He drops it on the pile of petals. And wipes the single teardrop with the back of his hand.

Then, he gets up to reach for the tissue box right by his bedside, tears off a few sheets, wraps the evidence of his deathly deterioration into a moist pile, and chucks it into the wastebasket. Plodding over to the bathroom sink next door, Kuroko switches on the tap and scrubs his face with icy water. 

When he looks up, the reflection of a gaunt spectre haunts him with its hollow blue eyes and a crimson petal stuck on the corner of its lips. 

It won’t be long before he can’t hide it anymore. 

His body is a flowering graveyard, and chrysanthemum parasites feast on his banquet of innards.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

>   
>  **From:** Golden Retriever  
>  **Subject:**  
>  **Message:**  
>  _Kurokocchi, remember the poster I did? Some guys gave me feedback and I think I’m on to something! ＼（Ｔ∇Ｔ）／ Gonna text you more about this when I have more details!_  
> 

* * *

**► | PLAY**  
The first stage of death comes in petals; from coughs and sneezes and talks, then it escalates to vomiting whole flowers. 

Kuroko is already a veteran in all aspects. 

He no longer lies on his back in case he hacks out flowers in his sleep, chokes on them, and dies an impromptu death. These days, he wakes up with sore sides and tatami mats imprinted on his cheeks. From every dusted nook and cranny, his room stinks like someone’s done a massive overhauling with floral air-fresheners. Awfully stifling, so he gets up and slides the rattling windows open. 

Some fresh air to flush out the stench would both him and his mind some good. 

Kuroko takes his time washing up in the bathroom when he brushes his teeth, carefully going over each molar. Only a few days in, he’s established a routine for himself: Wash up, wait for the customary gagging to begin, vomit flowers into the toilet bowl, and flush it all away. He showers with a bar soap, pulls on a shirt and some carelessly folded shorts, and makes a mug of tea while waiting for his antique laptop to boot up. 

If he’s lucky, he doesn't cough again for a few hours. If not, he regurgitates flower-laced breakfast into the wastebasket, then primly wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

It’s pathetic how he’s reduced to nothing but a slave of nature, a slave to the epidemic documented by the world. A slave of _love_. 

Now, he’s stuck either dying all holed up in his room, or journeying to find the elusive redhead he’s supposed to court and woo and kiss and marry.

At the rate of his advancement, Kuroko knows where he stands.

* * *

**► | PLAY**  
_“—Kise wants you to come back.”_

“Please tell him not to worry,” Kuroko replies. One hand cradling the phone, the other handling the kettle, he douses his noodles with a liberal amount of steam-hot water and watches the bubbles rise to the surface. After a moment’s consideration, he adds, “I’m fine, I’ve been eating well. I’ve also been taking proper care of myself, Midorima-kun. You didn’t have to call me, really.”

 _”As the most responsible in the group, I have to make sure nobody’s skipping classes on purpose,”_ comes his predictably irritated response. _”As long as you have a proper show-cause letter or a medical certificate to prove that you’re absent for a valid reason, I’m not concerned at all, Kuroko.”_

Midorima’s voice shakes when he recites his lines, speaking haltingly, seemingly weighing out the pros and cons of each word on his tongue. He is such a bad liar compared to the rest of them.

Kuroko waits for a full minute before he adds the curry seasoning and stirs the contents, watching it spike into runny crimson, all the while nodding in tandem with Midorima’s stream of motherly nagging. He shouldn’t be pressured to make decisions on an empty stomach when Midorima asks if he’s keeping up with assignments, whether he’d like to have some notes delivered to his house this weekend, if he’s aware of the schedule changes for next week’s classes—

_”—though, I’ve heard from them. You’re… ill.”_

Kuroko frowns. He stops stirring. “How far did they tell you?”

_”You vomited red flowers.”_

“Oh. That.” Blasé, Kuroko carries on with his dinner, laying out the plastic cutleries on the countertop and waiting for his instant noodles to cook. Cold air washes over his feet and he fidgets, moving over to stand on the orange rug instead. “Please don’t worry about it. I’m still alive, talking to you right now.”

Midorima doesn’t seem to hear his witty response; that or he’s purposely ignoring Kuroko. Scratchy sounds come from the other end and Kuroko scrutinises them. When it’s followed by a tearing paper, Midorima resumes. _“I know someone with red hair, but I’m not sure if that person is yours. He’s—well, he lives in Kyoto at the moment. If it helps you, I’ll text you his address later, along with his number. You can decide what you want to do with it.”_

It’s getting colder now. Kuroko rubs his feet over one another, unsettlement oozing thickly over him. “Thank you, Midorima-kun, for being considerate.”

 _“—don’t get me wrong, I still need you to stay alive for everyone’s sake. Momoi’s constant crying isn’t good for her health,”_ Midorima corrects him abruptly, but his voice turns hushed. Strained, even. _“Take the time to call him. After that, well, you can do whatever you want.”_

‘Whatever you want’ involves staying locked in his house until Kuroko knows exactly what to do with this disease.

Modern science declared war on this wanton lovesickness, calling it nature’s cruel joke, and set out to battle it for the betterment of humanity—with a certain price tag of ¥84,000,000 via surgery. They’d uproot the flowers wholly from its infestation within the human cavity, snipping off the core of its madness. _”Repairing you,”_ they said, _”so you’d be as good as new.”_

Nothing great comes without a side effect; newspapers reported the patients awakened from deathlike slumber with a hollow sensation in their chest, never to love nor to feel love ever again for the rest of their lives. 

Their price for rebelling against God’s greatest gift.

But Kuroko doesn’t own the riches of a CEO. His options branch off only in two directions: to accept death as dictated by fate, or to die trying. And Midorima is offering the latter as a plausible destiny.

“I understand, Midorima-kun. I’ll think about it,” he says, dipping his chin in resignation. “Thank you for worrying about me.”

Midorima only grunts, but there’s no hiding the small improvement in his monotonous timbre. _“You’re welcome, Kuroko. Get some rest, avoid lying down on your back if you can.”_

By the time their phone call ended with a tolling dial tone, Kuroko puts down his cell phone and grabs his dinner.

His noodles have gone cold.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

>   
>  **To:** 0118481414  
>  **Subject:** Good evening.  
>  **Message:**  
>  _Good day, Akashi-san, my name is Kuroko Tetsuya. I’m sorry for contacting you out of nowhere, but Midorima Shintaro-kun gave me this number. At the moment, I’m currently suffering from the Hanahaki-byou and I’ve been vomiting red flowers. I don’t know if the person I am supposed to be with is you, but if so, may I come and visit you in Kyoto?_  
> 

* * *

**◄◄ | REWIND**

It’s his eighteenth spring when his mother speaks in a hushed voice: “Tecchan, we… might not have enough to send you to college.”

Kuroko sees his university entrance papers shredded before his eyes. A trauma too vivid looping in his head. To this day, he wonders if it’s just a daymare when he feels the grainy texture on his fingertips, feeding the shredder with sheets of his application, watching strips of paper rain the Earth amidst thundering machine works. 

He doesn’t blame them; Kuroko never does, and never will. 

His father’s wallet has gotten fairly thin, and they’ve been reheating leftovers to make up for a warm breakfast. Grandmother suddenly acquired an active interest in growing vegetables one morning, and mother stopped purchasing her favourite brands even when she’s back from shopping. He knows. Observant Kuroko knows.

Yet, he says nothing more just to spare his father the shamefully helpless feeling of being unable to provide for his family. The recession’s hit everyone pretty bad at the end of the year. Private sectors are forced to lay off more of their workers, with stocks plummeting faster than diving hawks. Just two weeks ago, his father’s CEO made an untimely exit, and there’s no helping it.

Over a can of beer, his father remorses the man’s death whilst the rest looked on pensively. 

“How did I miss the signs? He kept saying he’s ashamed—he can’t keep up Takara Co. running in top shape. Hanged himself in his bedroom, I heard. Atsube,” he shakes his head, regretful, and takes another swig of beer, “he talked about recommending me to our rival company. He knows it’s coming and I wasn’t _there_ for him when he suddenly—“

Father chokes on a flood of tears and mother holds out a hand on his thigh. She pats him quietly, lovingly, clouding the tight lines on her face. Kuroko could only lower his head respectfully and whispers a prayer under his breath. Such deaths are commonly upheld as an honourable way to go for a grave error in Japan, an uncorrectable mistake with no way out, but no matter how he looks at it, this only puts them in a tighter pinch. 

“I’ll find a job by the end of this week,” his father continues, exhaling raggedly, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “Just—just give me some time, everyone. We’ll make it through together as a family.”

And they did make it through. 

Grandmother actively babysits children from the neighbourhood, mother spends time from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. sorting letters in the local post office, and his father juggled two jobs to make ends meet. 

And Kuroko continues going to school to make them proud.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

>   
>  **To:** 0118481414  
>  **Subject:** FWD: Good evening.  
>  **Message:**  
>  _Good evening, Akashi-san, I’m sorry for bothering you. I think my previous message probably didn’t reach you, so I’ll forward it again. Thank you for reading._
> 
> _Good day, Akashi-san, my name is Kuroko Tetsuya. I’m sorry for contacting you out of nowhere, but Midorima Shintaro-kun gave me this number. At the moment, I’m currently suffering from the Hanahaki-byou and I’ve been vomiting red flowers. I don’t know if the person I am supposed to be with is you, but if so, may I come and visit you in Kyoto?_  
> 

* * *

**► | PLAY**  
Fractured sunlight falls over the woven tatami. Overhead, rainy bullets stormed the zinc roof.

Rainy Saturdays are meant to be spent warming hands on mugs of green tea, burrowed safely in cocoons of blankets, the reassuring weight of a novel held in his palms. Instead, Kuroko clicks away on his laptop, cellphone opened nearby. Midorima’s text shines on the screen, arranged neatly in a sequence depicting numbers, address, and a name, then another paragraph of his motherly nagging to remind Kuroko to live. 

Living is what Kuroko’s trying to do right now. He doesn’t put much faith in finding the mysterious redhead, but figures it’s worth the shot. At the very least, he comforts himself with knowing it’s better than lazing about for death’s kiss.

From Tokyo via the Nozomi train, it will take Kuroko approximately two and a half hours to get to Kyoto Station, but the discouraging price tag of ¥14,000 has him cringing. There’s no way he’d be able to afford that, especially after paying off his monthly rent for this apartment. Local trains are fairly expensive for ¥8,210 on a single trip with no return ticket, and expressway buses went as far as ¥10,000 on the spot. Even if he squeezed out his meagre scholarship and rations the rest of the weeks away on diets of cup noodles, banning himself from Maji milkshakes, he’d never pull through. 

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips and Kuroko cradles his head in the nest he fashioned with his arms, holding himself together. 

Just as soon as he thinks there is hope, it leaves him with a dying flicker.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

>   
>  **To:** 0118481414  
>  **Subject:** Good evening.  
>  **Message:**  
>  _Hello, Akashi-san. I apologise for bothering you again. I understand I’m troubling you, but I’ve reached my wit’s end. At this rate, I’ll die. Still, I’d like to try again before I give up entirely: May I talk to you, even for the briefest moment? Please, do consider it. I beg you._  
> 

* * *

**◄◄ | REWIND**  
“—a legend?”

“Hanahaki-byou is what the older people used to call the disease, Tecchan,” his grandmother chortles, her knobbly fingers deftly knitting up a muffler from a ball of yarn. A gift of sky blue with black initials for him to get through his twentieth winter in his poorly warmed apartment. “It’s Kisshōten-sama’s curse to humanity for forgetting to worship Her, the deity who bestows fertility and happiness. And now, people all over the world have no choice but to carry on this beautiful disease with them so they’ll know the suffering She went through.”

It’s a tall story, scientifically unproven and illogical, lacking tens of research journals to back it up. But grandmother recounts the tale with stunning clarity, a story of smokes and mirrors passed down from one generation to another, from her mother’s mouth to her. Now it’s Kuroko’s turn to listen and do the same for his children when she’s no longer with him. 

“But what if it’s an unrequited love?” he remembers asking, absentmindedly fingering the tightly woven tatami underneath him. “Isn’t it impossible for everyone to find love in the end?” 

Because that’s what all novels market nowadays, fantasies of a rose-coloured life to mask shattered hearts. There’s no helping his disdain of their marketing schemes.

She laughs at his seriousness, silver threads of hair shaking out of the matronly bun on her head. Wrinkles crease the corners of her eyes when she beams, fingers stopping their work. “Some humans are blessed not to carry the disease in their blood, so they get to live as is. But for the rest of us, we’re sentenced to Her heavy punishment. That is why we fight to love and be loved, Tecchan.”

Nothing makes sense. 

“If love is really as cruel as this, then why do people glorify it?” Kuroko presses on. 

Grandmother falls silent. She doesn’t answer for a long while, letting the sharp clip of silence hang between them, thin. Kuroko could break it if he tries—just open his mouth to ask again, it is the hammer that will smash the wall _if_ he tries. Only, he doesn’t get the chance to; grandmother resumes her work, mercurial, and the magic is lost.

Ten minutes later, whether it is out of plain whim or sympathy, she says something. 

He almost doesn’t catch her words, but her indistinct murmuring makes his heart its new home. A concrete mansion fashioned from unanswered questions.

“To love is to suffer, Tecchan. You’ll understand why the greatest love is often built out of the deepest suffering.”

They never got a chance to resume their conversation after she passed away. Death stole her voice and muted her presence in his mind.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

  
**DIALLING: 0118481414  
**   
_”The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”_  
**—click.**  


* * *

**► | PLAY**  
Midorima stands before a door in the noiseless hallway. 

It's worn, full of scratches, and has a chewed plastic nameplate hanging off a rusted nail. Kuroko Tetsuya's written on it in a bubbly scrawl, felt-tip marker ink already fading with age. He spots some light coming from the slight gap where floor meets wood. Kuroko's home as always, perhaps catching up on his schoolwork, and while that's certainly an admirable quality as a soon-to-be Toudai graduate, the medical student can't help but to click his tongue. 

Why hasn't Kuroko departed for Kyoto? 

Midorima's given everything he could on his part; a number, an address, a name to aid his journey northwards. Nothing should be holding Kuroko back—unless he's bent on plunging right into the abyss, but that's why Midorima's here in the first place: To stop reckless deaths from happening. Raising his fist, he makes three sharp raps on the door, watches some cement dust fall from the ceiling from his forceful knocks, and shakes his head at the dismal living conditions surrounding Kuroko. 

Not everyone is fortunate to be born into families of strong pedigree.

By chance, he met Kuroko on Cancer's lucky day, a Wednesday with a bright red bow, and notes how Kuroko fluidly redirects him to the library section containing medical journals without consulting the computer database. 

He doesn't shirk from his library duties and mountains of homework despite being a student. Without Midorima's constant egging, without depending on Aomine's half-assed contribution, without Kise's ever error-full report, he could deliver paperworks on the spot if needs be. Kuroko's determination stems from his hard background he never speaks of, but Midorima knows from loose-lipped Kise that Kuroko's maintaining a strict schedule to juggle his grades for scholarship whilst making ends meet with a plethora of part-time jobs. 

Living in squalor like this just to cut down on his expenses instead of renting out of the university dorm, Midorima can't imagine to what great lengths Kuroko would go to ration his savings. Does he send money back to his parents? Are they aware of his detrimental lifestyle? How much does he make monthly? Hopefully enough to keep living day by day, Midorima reasons, and leaves it at that when he hears the satisfying click of an opening door. 

Except, it's not so satisfying when the Kuroko emerges, movements ghostlike.

"Good day, Midorima-kun."

Good day is another understatement. 

Grand red spider lilies swell out of Kuroko’s left eye, drooping heavily against his cheek. Glorious red claws outstretched, they veil his face partway. Healthy crimson parasites feed off his pain and sorrow; impaled on his eyeball, their dainty stamens shiver in time with the frigid current stirring in the hallway. 

_The second stage of Hanahaki-byou begins with flowers growing out of the host through their open cavities; most commonly the eye, the ears, and the mouth,_ ‘Modern Medicine and their Treatments’ recites automatically in Midorima’s head. 

And Kuroko himself is the perfect living embodiment of his medical textbook, a fine specimen to be examined. 

Midorima's hand jerks automatically to cradle Kuroko's cheek. He keeps his touches tender, shaking, aware that every prod of his fingertip has Kuroko flinching. He’s seen a few tragedies from his patients on his interning shifts, but nothing as critical as this. “Why didn’t you just _go_ , Kuroko?”

Bitter is what normal people are supposed to sound like. 

Bitter from unrequited love, bitter from lost hope, bitter from everything life tests him with. Kuroko Tetsuya, however, seems incapable of sounding bitter. At most, his voice carries the tone of acceptance, acceptance of everything and anything that will happen. Resigned acceptance. “I’ve tried texting the number you gave me, Midorima-kun, but he didn’t answer.”

“Then call—“

“He doesn’t pick up.” Almost lamely, Kuroko shrugs and fishes out his phone, showing off the red lines running down his screen. “Fourteen times. I tried.”

Midorima would’ve banged his arm on the door out of sheer frustration if he were Takao, but doctors do not lose their cool. Doctors provide solutions. Doctors provide cures. And doctors provide people the luxury of picking between life or death. 

He breathes in, filling his thoracic cavity with air, counts to ten, and breathes out again. Fingers pluck the spectacles from the bridge of his nose under the pretence of cleaning smudges with a piece of cloth, when it’s all just an elaborate cover to avoid seeing the grotesque beauty Kuroko has become. 

“Go to Kyoto, Kuroko. I’ll submit a letter to the university on your behalf,” he says. 

Kuroko tries to blink, but not without lowering his eyelids like every single time would be his last and he’d never open them again. Only one eye gets to close; the other is a joke with lilies faithfully prying it open. He looks like he’s winking than blinking, cynically mocking fate. Bruised purples erupt from the crowded socket, crawling with spiderweb veins uprooting the little pale canvas Kuroko has to offer. It’s got to _hurt_. 

“I can’t,” the other replies. Again with the shrug. “I paid my rent this month so I don’t have much left.”

 _Then tell your parents to help out_ lies heavy on his tongue, but Midorima willingly swallows it off. He can’t say he’s thought of things this far, but drastic measures are the only way for him to keep his friend alive. Dipping his hand inside the pocket of his pressed slacks, Midorima withdraws his wallet and pulls out a fat wad of cash. He doesn’t count, not when he knows he recently withdrew a good sum from the ATM, and grabs Kuroko’s hand to stuff it in his sweaty palm.

“Take it,” he says, finality underlining his tone. “There’s about ¥50,000—enough for you to go and take the Shinkansen and come back. If you need to stay the night there, do it. Call me if you still don’t have enough and I’ll bank it in to you.”

He knows, he sees the panic take flight in Kuroko’s single eye and feels the man fighting to get away from his grasp. Midorima grips him tight and doesn’t let go—if Kuroko’s underestimating the strength of a doctor who has to hold down pregnant mothers in labour rooms, he needs to rethink wisely. 

“I can’t take this, Midorima-kun,” Kuroko declines, shaking his head. “I won’t be able to repay you.”

“I’m not doing this for myself, Kuroko,” Midorima insists, jaw tight with restraint. “I’m doing this for the sake of everyone else. We don’t want to attend your funeral, Kuroko, and I—“ _crap_ , he shouldn’t be choking up like this, he’s a doctor for goodness sake, “—and I _don’t_ want to be the one signing your death certificate. Take it and go now. You’ll still make it before the third stage.”

He expects an argument—a solid refusal with Kuroko narrowing his eyes and punching his gut if all else fails, yet nothing follows afterwards. Maybe the flower siphons all life out of his fights, maybe he’s too close to the edge, maybe he’s almost giving up. They’re all just a bunch of maybes cluttering his head without a clear yes or no, and he’ll never get the answer to the questions he’s asking, but Kuroko’s little—

“Thank you, Midorima-kun,” he says, clutching the money tightly. “I’ll come back as soon as I can with the extra change, promise.”

—is all Midorima ever needs to hear, setting a smile on his lips.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

  
** DIALLING: 0118481414 **  
_”The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”  
**BEEP.**_

“Akashi-san? It’s me, Kuroko Tetsuya. I apologise for suddenly calling you again, but I want you to know that I’m coming to see you.”

**_—click._ **  


* * *

**► | PLAY**  
Kyoto is new, but its residents’ reactions are old.

Everywhere Kuroko goes, _they_ balk and avoid crossing paths with him. 

Nothing about Hanahaki-byou is contagious, whether through direct physical contact or airborne, but he understands their aversion to the grim death insignia over his eye. Nobody welcomes death; humans always carefully tread around the subject in denial of the ultimate end. Even his seat mate backtracked and made a fuss about wanting to be reseated elsewhere without caring he’s within earshot. He could hear her, _”—but it’s just disgusting, how could you let him on the train?”_ just loud and clear without her growling emphasis. 

Luckily, the taxi driver waiting outside the station is an elderly man with no prejudices whatsoever, even after Kuroko introduces to him the address he needs to reach. 

“My son died because of the same disease too,” the man opens up his tale, murky eyes tossing a discreet glance in the rear mirror. Kuroko catches his wandering stare, letting him examine the redness marring his face. “His was a lily too, but a black one. Silly boy,” he says, lighthearted, then abruptly turns somber. “… but I was the silliest.”

His little cab rolls down the streets and wades through the thin traffic easily. After a stretch of dazzling shops, the driver makes a left turn and begins exiting the main road. 

“My son,” he offers his story again, this time from a different angle; “He was a good boy, always getting good grades in high school. His friend used to tag along with him when he comes back home and they cooked for me, just like my late wife used to do. I worked as a driver, you see, so I usually came home tired—but the instant I see his home-cooked meal, all that tiredness vanish. I was an idiot though… for not believing in him more.”

This time, Kuroko wets his lips. “I’m sure you’re not.”

Strangely, the old man laughs at his denial. He slows down and takes the right fork when they reach a junction, traversing through a housing district with a scenic path of rich plum blossoms and brightly painted gates. A high road nestled between trees stands out in the distance, going further uphill as they approach steadily in the car. 

“There’s no mincing words, boy,” he says, suddenly all too sober after his laugh. “I killed him.”

Kuroko’s gaze shot upwards to meet the old man in the mirror. 

Those crinkling eyes betrayed nothing. The truth remains isolated pupils in the sea of his cloudy irises. “First time he started coughing black pansies, I told him to go and work things out with the girl he likes. He didn’t talk about it at the beginning, but when he got worse, I forced the truth right out of him. And at that time, I hated it: My son was in love with his friend. My _only_ son was in love with another boy, and he won’t give me any grandchildren in the future. I… I just couldn’t take it at that time.”

Icy pinpricks begin to line Kuroko’s spine.

“I stopped him from going to school—shifted him out, packed our bags, went out of town. Took him to the best doctors and shamans you can get around Osaka, but he didn’t get better. Every day, I watched him slowly die. Every day, faithfully—blindly believing he’ll get better after isolating him, but I knew I was lying to myself each time I see him cough out pansies the size of my fist.” He grips the steering wheel tight, white bones surfacing on thin skin. “But Teppei—he never blamed me, even when the lily grew out of his mouth and he couldn’t talk anymore. ”

The only response Kuroko musters is a solemn, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Tongue-tied, just like Teppei once was.

“Teppei kept writing on papers to give to me, you see,” the old man continues, trying on a bleak smile on his face. “I still keep his letters until now, even if they’re just the same thing. _’I’m sorry, dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for liking a boy, I’m sorry I can’t love someone else, I’m sorry I can’t give you a grandchild’_ , he never stopped apologising like it was his fault when it was mine to begin with. A week after that, the letters stopped. He died. And it’s all because of my stupidity.” 

At a loss, Kuroko only stares ahead. The casual task of sitting becomes unbearable.

Their cab crawls further uphill, gradually slowing down. The old man’s eyes rove over the high walls circling majestic mansions in the area, reading off the polished number plates hanging outside their gates. Glazed tiles of navy blues, emerald greens, and rusted reds peek behind steel gates. Ivy vines creep over beige granite walls, and flowering shrubs spill from above like a delicate curtain. 

For someone who lives in this extravagant area, Kuroko fashions the image of a haughty scion sneering at his arrival. Upturned lip, snooty nose, squinting eyes. Way to dampen his spirit, but he can’t turn back—he can’t turn around.

The moment the cab brakes, Kuroko already has one hand in his bag to pay the old man. ¥6,800 glows from the LED display mounted on the dashboard. But the man only shakes his head and asks, “Do you know what black lilies mean, boy?”

Stumped, Kuroko removes his hand from his wallet. “No, I don’t.”

“Do you know what red spider lilies mean then?” asks the driver again, crinkled eyes patiently evaluating Kuroko’s expression. “You know about ‘em, right?”

Kuroko politely looks away. “Yes, I do.” 

Of course he does. They’re the same flowers planted around his grandmother’s tombstone. 

The flower of death.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

  
** DIALLING: 0118481414 **  
_”The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”  
**BEEP.**_

“Akashi-san? It’s me, Kuroko Tetsuya. I’m standing outside your gate right now. Will you please come out and meet me?”

**_—click._ **  


* * *

**► | PLAY**  
Kuroko’s wrong.

Akashi Seijūrō's hair makes you want to touch it but you know you'll burn your fingers. They're red, redder than the chrysanthemums he vomited, and for a moment, there exists nothing but a world of red _red_ **red** to Kuroko. He carries himself with an erect posture and walks with faint _clip-clop-clip-clop_ of his shoes, in a way that Kuroko feels he's in big trouble with his boss after work. 

While he's aesthetically pleasing to the eyes, he's an unpleasant presence invading Kuroko's heart. 

“You’re certainly a bold man, I’ll acknowledge that.”

And for a dichromat with rubies and gold for his piercing eyes, his tongue is a jewelled dagger.

Faced with such intensity, Kuroko attempts to water it down. “Thank you, Akashi-san. I don’t want to die yet when there’s still hope. That’s why I came here to see you for myself.”

“Hope?” Akashi echoes, leaning against the closed gates of his mansion. His smile is syrup, eroding the innocence of the word that rolled off his tongue, leaving only skeletal remains in its wake. “Your spirit is admirable, but you’re using it for all the wrong reasons. Shame, really.”

He’s standing on thin ice. He’s cold all over. Doubt manifests. “Is it wrong to be spirited to live?”

The laugh that escapes Akashi is savage. He curls his lips, the cruel red spider lily he is, and inspects Kuroko like the boy doesn’t reach up to his standards, like the boy isn’t meant to be in Dior shoes and Versace shirt, like he’s not meant to be loved, like he does not deserve to be loved by Akashi. Judgment comes, quick.

“No, but to be spirited to love someone you don’t know, is that your finest idea of a joke?”

He’s right, but he’s wrong. Akashi proves to be just as difficult as the lilies crawling out of his eyeball; he makes Kuroko ache for all the right reasons in all the wrong ways, and Kuroko hates that. He hates the mixed signals with no translation in between.

Taking a step forward, Kuroko balls his fist, tight. “You’re wrong, Akashi-san. I’m driven here by my disease to meet you, and to learn to love you. If you really are the one, then I—“

“—quite an impudent person you are, coming all the way to Kyoto after begging to see me countless of times, then lecturing me on love.” Akashi narrows his eyes, inexplicably annoyed at what Kuroko utters. He makes no motion to grab Kuroko by the cuffs, but his words have the same effect. “Did you honestly think I will love you? Have the flowers seized your brain and given you rose-tinted lenses?”

No, no, _no_. This is all wrong. He came here barehanded and expected to salvage nothing from Akashi, but here stands the man himself: Magnanimous, he feeds Kuroko scraps from his hand, yet he finds pleasure in smearing the rest all over Kuroko’s lips. The verbal humiliation hits hardest.

Forced to reevaluate his stand, Kuroko shakes his head. There is no point in blatant denial of the truth. Not when Akashi’s eyes are boring holes into him. “Right now, I know I’m asking for the impossible. We’re both strangers, but we can learn from each other. It’ll take time, but I know we can do it.”

Learning things have always been Kuroko’s specialty. Learning to adapt with his declining allowance. Learning to cope with his grandmother’s death. Learning to catch the wisps of hope between his fingers. Learning to love someone who won’t love him back. 

Akashi doesn’t seem enthused at the prospect of abiding Kuroko’s suggestion, but he makes a fine negotiator when he says, “So? What is your proposed solution?”

It’s by a long shot, but it worked for Aomine. Who’s to say it won’t work for him? 

Raising his head, Kuroko straightens up and looks at him squarely. “I’d like to kiss you, Akashi-san.” There is no hesitation in his voice when he states his demand, and the redhead’s eyes glowed belligerently. “I want to put a stop to this. Just a kiss, that is all I’m asking from you, if you’ll let me.”

There is a caged animal within Akashi, an animal Kuroko fears he is about to unleash. Tight jaw, neck fraught, and firmly lidded vexation. A lion awaits its moment pounce on the prey. The moment whirls by with the breeze, and the lilies tickle his cheek as their wavy petals bounce on his skin. They’re in a standoff, and Kuroko is wise not to move, not even a single inch when his throat itches to retch flowers on the tarmac. 

His patience pays off. 

Akashi, seemingly satisfied after studying Kuroko for a while, says, “Very well, I’ll indulge your silly whim. We’ll see what happens,” and boldly puts a foot forward. 

He closes in, a predator to a cornered prey.

Akashi smells like some spicy cologne, the raw sting blistering right up Kuroko’s nostrils. Chest to chest, button-up to a Polo neck; pressed slacks to laundromat jeans; Manolo shoes to squeaky Converse; up and down, left and right, Akashi has him mired in this destructive labyrinth— _his_ destructive labyrinth, and Kuroko’s left at the bottom of the spiral staircase with no exit in sight. 

“Tell me something,” Akashi breathes out, so close to Kuroko until he can count his bottom eyelashes, until he sees the corrosive yellow flecked in the golds of Akashi’s eye. “Have you ever kissed someone before?”

There’s a hand sitting on his hip, heavy and unfamiliar to Kuroko.

“No.” Kuroko swallows off the lump in his throat. His answer proves to please Akashi for reasons beyond his currently limited comprehension, and it’s not a beautiful sight. He can see white teeth behind Akashi’s pale lips. “The prospect of exchanging saliva with strangers doesn’t interest me, Akashi-san.”

He chuckles. It’s such a _terribly_ derisive sound, but it goes straight to Kuroko’s skin in the form of pinpricks. The hand on his hip digs deeper.

“Neither do I,” agrees Akashi, tipping his head, obviously understanding the finer mechanics of giving kisses, “but for you, I’ll make an exception.” The tips of their nose brushed, the world narrows down to scarlet seas with promises of gold ingots, and he kisses these words to Kuroko’s lips: “Just to prove you wrong.”

First kisses should be done with eyes closed and little giggles. Maybe while holding hands too. 

Kuroko’s first kiss is done with his eyes wide open and a startled hitch of his breath. There’s no romantic reassurances of a hand grasping his; only a demanding hand pressing bruises into his flesh. It’s the pathetic scrape of dried lips on one another, with flowers clustering Akashi’s face, his gold eye peeking between the fingers of the lilies.

There is a certain persistence in the way Akashi kisses him. Like he won’t stop until he’s kissed all air out of Kuroko, with the faint introduction of a tongue pressing against the seams of his lips. Are they supposed to kiss with this much fervour? Kuroko doesn’t know. He obediently follows his steps, parting his lips, having no options to reverse the outcome.

Akashi tastes like creme brûlée. Bitter, like the scorched sugar granules on the top. Bitter, bitter, bitter with an underlying thirst of sweetness. 

His body is tense, but Akashi coaxes him to loosen his muscles. Fingers knead Kuroko’s sides, digging into his flesh to tear him apart, seductive provocation only the beasts are capable of. Slick warmth and slow suction that hits him right in his knees. _Open up,_ he seems to say while sucking on Kuroko’s tongue, _open up and let me devour you. Let me devour you like the flower that devoured your eye._

When they’re left breathless, chest heaving, they part. Akashi removes his hand from Kuroko’s body, and he licks his lips consciously. Bitter. Just bitter. Bitter, like Kuroko’s heart. 

Comfort only comes in the form of the sunset now washing over them; it’s the only _right_ thing Kuroko likes, out of all the _wrong_ things he likes.

Wrong things like Akashi Seijuro. 

Like the flower of death, still rooted in his eye socket. 

Almost hopelessly, Kuroko raises his hand and brushes his fingers over the repulsive parasite. Each tug hurts. If he yanks it out of his eye, he thinks he’ll pull out his intestines through his trachea. They have festered too much. It’s not surprising if the vines have twined over his heart too. They’ve rotted internally, rotted his judgment, and in turn, rotted the core of his garden—his heart. 

“Tetsuya, was it?” Akashi says, breaking the silence. 

He knows he’s distracted by the permanent resident overtaking his face, by the sudden realisation that his life is still ticking, still dying on death’s watch—just too distracted to feel irritated at the redhead for intimately addressing him so. But Akashi’s cryptic expression demands his attention, and Kuroko tries to verbalise his attentiveness. “Yes…?”

Feasibly pleased, Akashi crosses his arms over his chest and tips his chin. Streaks of ochre from the sunset spark a certain frenzy in his eyes, with opaque shadows falling over the defined contours of his sharp features.

“Let me educate you,” says Akashi coldly, yet his warmth on Kuroko’s lips lingers. “You know nothing about me, yet you traveled from Tokyo to Kyoto while spouting nonsense that you’re a man capable enough to love me. You believed what _you_ wanted to believe, Tetsuya, but what you believed is wrong. Now that you’ve got your answer, you can return home knowing that I’m not for you,” and here he smiles, the breathtaking beauty who bleeds not a single ounce of compassion, “and _you_ are most definitely _not_ for me.”

No. 

Fire still burns strongly in Kuroko. “I was—“

No, no. 

Evidently, Akashi’s had enough of him for the day. He spins around without sparing Kuroko a single pitiable smile and reopens the gates to his cold mansion. Shout away if Kuroko wants to, but all doors to negotiations are hammered shut. Akashi doesn’t even look back when he bids farewell to the man he kissed on his doorstep.

“Goodbye, Kuroko Tetsuya.”

The clanging of the steel gates swallows him whole and shuts him away.

* * *

**► | PLAY**  
In Kyoto Station’s washroom, yolk yellow tiles glaring at him, Kuroko scrubs his face and hands thoroughly like he’s disposing the evidence of his tears. He fought a long, losing battle. It’s time to accept his loss. Akashi’s soiled him with kiss, in what seems to be an official edict ordering his death. His low, authoritarian voice plays in an eternal loop in the darkness.

_“Did you honestly think I will love you? Have the flowers seized your brain and given you rose-tinted lenses?”_

Yes, yes they have. These flowers come with a name—Akashi Seijuro. He is the cruel red spider lily, the rotten flower representing paradise and parasites, he has seized every nook and cranny of Kuroko’s brain and proclaimed it his and his only. But in turn, madness, sheer madness will infect the bearer. Sheer madness of love, wanting to learn how to love, and wanting to be loved.

_”You know nothing about me, yet you traveled from to Kyoto while spouting nonsense that you’re a man capable enough to love me. You believed what you wanted to believe, Tetsuya, but what you believed is wrong.”_

Kuroko braces himself over the sink and heaves mouthfuls after mouthfuls of crimson chrysanthemums into the running spray of water. With each retching comes a burning pain that rips right up his lungs to his throat, it’s just like jamming a dagger right into his mouth to make him puke. He reeks of a sickly fragrance called old romance. He is lovesick.

_“You can return home knowing that I’m not for you, and you are most definitely not for me.”_

Kuroko twists the tap to stop the current, pumps out two dots of handwash gel, slathers them over the back of his hands—he stops short.

There, a single rusty red petal has grown out of his fingernail, replacing its existence. 

Like a festering wound, there’s more. More and more of them. More and more erupt from his finger to his wrist, resembling dragon scales transplanted onto a human. In his fit of confusion of where his fingernail disappeared to and how his hand is shedding rhododendron flowers like feathers to a bird, Kuroko gingerly touches them.

They sting. They sting as much as Akashi’s words. 

Is this part of Kisshōten’s punishment? Of failing to love, and to be loved?

Biting his lips, Kuroko trembles with uncertainty of the future. When he looks up, the reflection of a gaunt spectre haunts him with its hollow blue-red eye, and a crimson petal stuck on the corner of its lips. 

And another petal. And another. And another. All the way down to his jaw to his throat to his collarbones, a line of petals blooming in its wake.

The final stage has just begun.

* * *

**❚❚ | PAUSE**

>   
>  **From:** Golden Retriever  
>  **Subject:** I GOT IT  
>  **Message:**  
>  _Kurokocchi Kurokocchi Kurokocchi Kurokocchi! I got a match! He’s got red hair and he’s a friend of a friend of mine! Midorimacchi said you’re in Kyoto right now so when you get back, I’m gonna introduce you to Kagami Taiga right away! ⌒°(☌ᴗ☌)°⌒_  
> 

**▇ | STOP**

**Author's Note:**

> Here ends the first instalment of The Boy Who Dies of Lovesickness. Tbh this took me about seven? or was it six? months to write bc I started writing it after I met Erin and I thought it was pretty and she likes pretty things. IDK it kinda ended up fragmented bc I kept closing and opening the document to write it at different times. It was hard writing and rewriting it because my old writing style kept clashing with the new version so. 100% sorry. 
> 
> The stages of death are as follows: coughing out flowers, flowers growing out of your body cavities, and the final stage: shedding flower petals from your skin. **But WAIT: THERE'S MORE! There’s also a second chapter since it’s AkaKuro for a reason ayyy.**
>
>>   
>  **►► | FAST FORWARD Next Episode: SIDE RED**   
>  _Seijuurou’s last memory of his mother is of seeing her clothes sorted right out of her bedroom. Undoubtedly, Masaomi’s the one who instructed her room to be cleaned out—the sooner the better. Her boozy smile as she twirls in her Chantilly dress follows Seijuurou as his eyes trail after the pink lace chucked into a brown paperbag; presumably, it is to be thrown out at a later date, or donated to some charity house someplace distant, where Seijuurou’s greedy hands cannot reach._ _He will not hold what he cannot have._   
> 
> 
>   
>   
>  Thank you for reading!


End file.
